Chapter Text
“J.,” Tony says as he squeezes a blurt of toothpaste onto his brush, “pull up my newsfeed.”
“Yes, sir. Good morning.”
“Yay, it’s another day. Don’t sound so excited, J.”
“Sir is quite right.”
“Shut up. I can hear you judging me,” Tony says. He swirls his arms like he’s an orchestra conductor to indicate the entirety of the bathroom. “This here is a no-judgment zone.”
“If that is the case, then perhaps sir should have programmed me differently.”
He makes a face. “Oh, fuck you, J.”
“What you are suggesting is not possible, given that I do not have the appropriate anatomy. Or any anatomy, as it were.”
Tony rolls his eyes at the sarcasm but refrains from replying―this time. J.A.R.V.I.S. throws five holograms into the air, and Tony parks his butt on the bathroom counter, feeling the chill seep through his pajama bottoms. While first scanning the NY Times and then Financial Times , he brushes his teeth. The headlines scroll by in front of him at a speed that usually allows for maximum absorption, but today they scarcely register. Fed up, he shoves his brush in his mouth and clamps it against the inside of his cheek, then banishes all the news images with a careless wave. A telltale pressure climbs behind his eyes and threatens to crescendo in a dazzling headache.
Of course, he knows what day it is, has known for weeks that it’s coming. Has even had J.A.R.V.I.S. run a month-long countdown and dozens of alerts for him. December 16th: it’s there, lingering on the razor outer edge of his consciousness, causing a low-level distraction and unease that buzzes inside the bones of his skill and underneath his skin. Just one more reason why unrolling his blanket burrito self and leaving his and Steve’s comfy bed nest had been such a patently shitty idea. There’s simply no way to forget that yet another anniversary of his parents’ deaths has rolled around.
Thirty-five years. Damn.
He spits Crest toothpaste into the sink; rinses his mouth; washes his face with the usual cleanser but skips moisturizer because fuck it, his face can just shrivel up for this one day; dries his hands on a towel, then, when he can’t put it off any longer, leans in until he’s mere inches from the mirror and eyes his reflection. The time has come for a reckoning. Taking inspiration from Steve and his inhuman posture, he straightens his spine and shifts back his shoulders. He turns his face from side to side, studying his features. Dark hair, dark eyes―the darkness inside him?―the impatient arch of his eyebrows, his skin’s olive tones, even the underlying architecture of his face, all visibly from his father.
Examining his own face, he can’t find even a trace of his mother in it. How pathetic is that? Has he only ever been Howard Stark’s son? The thoughts taste bitter, even though he’s just brushed. No , he thinks, rebelling, and grits his teeth until his jaw aches.
Something hard and lonely builds in his stomach, spreading cold, skeletal fingers through him. Unable to maintain their rigidity in the face of his unsettling thoughts, Tony’s shoulders slump.
“What are you doing?”
The words spear through Tony’s thoughts. He glances up; his gaze snags on Steve’s in the mirror. Concern glimmers in the slight downturn of Steve’s lips. Staring at myself like an asshole. “Nothing,” he replies, his gaze flicking down and away like a skittish animal. They’ve spent years together and not, learning themselves, learning each other. It’s a double-edged sword, knowing another person so thoroughly, and being known so thoroughly in return.
“Tony.” Steve clears his throat.
Just his name, no-nonsense, patient, a little world-weary, maybe, but all the same, Tony fights not to cringe. Nothing. Steve isn’t going to be satisfied with such a vague, cop-out of an answer. Resistance is futile; he knows this. He's postponing the inevitable, but somehow that feels better than immediate capitulation.
“Steven,” he parrots. His resistance is half-hearted at best, but sometimes he still has these contrarian impulses to just fucking push back . He is a work in progress; their relationship, even though they’re happy most of the time, is, too. They’re two separate people. He has to remind both himself and Steve of that sometimes.
“That isn’t going to work.” A heavy breath punches through Steve’s nose―always a good sign. “You know I’ll just wait you out. It’s one of my few skills.”
He will, too. Of that he is one hundred percent sure. “One of many,” Tony replies, moving the toothbrush holder and the soap dispenser around on the counter, letting them knock into each other and avoiding Steve’s all-too-perceptive gaze.
Sure enough, Steve inches closer. Because damn it, after all this time, he does understand Tony, who sometimes wishes he didn’t. They aren’t touching, not yet, but Steve’s like Tony’s personal sun, radiating a heat that makes him want to melt in spite of his twisting feelings and impulses. But he manages to hold himself stiff, even as Steve sweeps one muscular arm around his chest and shoulders and the other around his waist, pressing his tall, solid length to Tony’s back. All the well-meaning lectures and even pleading wouldn’t be enough to make Tony bend if he didn’t want to, but Steve, the big, blond, devastatingly handsome weasel, has ferreted out all of Tony’s weak spots.
It’s incredibly annoying. Also effective. Seductive. Fine, addictive.
The way he’s holding Tony isn’t restrictive. Only secure. Present. He’s giving him a choice, Tony understands. That’s the only way their relationship functions—the only way it can continue to function. They're individuals and they have autonomy; they have to be allowed to choose each other or turn away. Neither of them can decide for the other.
When Tony brings his hands up, he isn’t yet sure what he’s going to do, doesn’t know if he’ll push Steve away or—
Steve curls down to meet Tony, bending until their heads rest together. “You still owe me fifteen kisses.” His voice is a gentle, hushed thing, snowflakes softening steel, sound, cold, still ground, and when Tony finally looks back in the mirror it isn’t himself he watches but Steve, whose eyes are closed but whose face is open and soft. Nothing is hidden. There’s just naked affection illuminating his face. Maybe it’s been there for even longer than Tony knows and he couldn’t see it before—couldn't believe it.
So Tony decides not to hide, either. “You can collect later,” he says. He lets his hands fall to his sides and twists in Steve’s grasp until he can tuck his face just under Steve’s chin, half against fuzzy flannel and half against soft skin. He doesn’t wrap his arms around Steve, just shuts his eyes and leans against his warm bulk like it can be his shelter, trusting Steve to take all his weight like he has so many times before.
And he does.
His strong arms fold carefully around Tony, and he waits, exactly as he promised he would because Steve strives to be a man of his word; it's one of the things Tony most appreciates about him. While Tony feels the regular rise and fall of Steve's chest as he breathes, he uses the time to center himself and gather what little courage he possesses.
Deep breath in, then out. Eyes shut, Tony speaks: “I’m scared.” The words come out small and uncertain.
"Of what?"
Tony shakes his head, face and hair brushing against Steve; Steve's arms tighten, but only fractionally. It would be easy for him to use his strength, but he doesn’t; he isn’t keeping Tony there against his will. As hard as it is to hold his ground, Tony does. He stays because he wants to.
"I got no plans today," Steve says, and then waits...again.